Over Hill And Over Dale
by Vampiyaa
Summary: Ten/Rose AU; Part Ten of the Forever and More series. A Scottish nobleman is touring London one day, where he sees a young girl being whipped by her master. He rescues her by purchasing her for a sixpence, and tells her she's free to leave. She doesn't.


**Beta: natural-blues**

* * *

Over Hill And Over Dale

John Smith sat inside his carriage, nursing a brandy in his hipflask, listening to the clip clopping of the horses and the occasional, "Hyah!" from his coachman, sighing at the sights beyond his carriage window. The bustling city of London was visible in the distance, lights from streetlamps and candles in the windows making the city look like one giant flickering orange diamond in the night, and he smiled at it, unbidden— he loved the city this time of year. The temperature was warm, the streets were bustling with people and all the little shops were open. Oh, he positively adored the little shops!

"Excited to be back, m'lord?" said his butler sitting across from him— Jack Harkness, a devilishly handsome man from America who'd become more of a friend than a waiter.

"Very," said John happily, his Scottish brogue sounding odd next to Jack's American accent. "The city is brilliant— and I'm looking forward to reacquainting myself with Reinette."

Jack smirked and said, because he knew John would let him. "Will that be all you're doing, m'lord?"

John smiled thinly but didn't tell him off, as anyone else would. "Yes, Jack. Reinette and I are acquaintances, no matter how much she wishes to be otherwise," he added bitterly, swirling his hipflask. "You, on the other hand, are free to her advances."

"Somehow I believe she only has eyes for you," Jack said smugly. "Why else would she so happen to be visiting her from France _and_ hosting a ball on the very week you're staying in London?"

"Yes, well," said John, disgruntled and face flaming. "She believes I am 'lonely'."

"Aren't you, m'lord?" Jack pressed, recoiling when John shot him a glare, indicating he'd overstepped his boundaries. "Apologies."

John shook his head. "No apologies necessary, Jack. Sometimes I do get lonely," he admitted, making Jack send him a look of pity. "After all, thirty and no lady wife, eh?"

His tone had turned joking, since Jack was three years older than him and had no wife to speak of either— of course, John had always suspected Jack of being… different… and was pretty sure his butler was shagging not only his servant maid but also his footman, Ianto Jones. "There's always the future for us lonely men, m'lord," said Jack, grinning and chuckling with John.

"Indeed," John grinned, just as the clopping of horse hooves sounded upon cobblestone instead of dirt path. He beamed. "Ah, we're close. Wonderful."

"Good, I lost feeling in my ass two days ago," Jack announced, sending John into a fit of laughter.

They arrived soon after at Torchwood House, John's guest residence for the entirety of his visit. His host and good friend from Glasgow, Robert MacLeish, greeted him at the door with a brilliant beam, his — oh — now very pregnant wife Isobel by his side waving enthusiastically.

"Congratulations Robert!" John beamed, kissing the Lady Isobel on the hand in greeting and regarding his friend.

"That's Sir Robert now, I'll have you know John," said Isobel excitedly.

John gaped. "You were _knighted_?!"

"By Her Imperial Majesty herself," Robert grinned proudly.

"She came round last year, in the autumn, to stay with us as her carriage had been delayed," Isobel elaborated. "She knighted Robert when he saved her from an assassination attempt by our very butler!"

"Excellent, good man," John grinned.

Robert had never looked prouder, though he was trying to appear modest. "Won't you come in?" he asked brightly, waving a hand in the direction of the Estate

"Graciously," John said happily, waving to Jack to follow him with his suitcases.

Before John was escorted into the manor, he caught a glimpse of a scraggly young woman dressed in rags of a dress, dirty blonde head peering at him from behind the corner of a shoemaker's shop. He turned his head to look at her, but she was yanked backwards by someone just before he could make eye contact with her, and he watched her get dragged away by what looked to be a very angry older man. Frowning but otherwise unconcerned, John shrugged the thought out of his mind and amiably stepped into the manor.

* * *

The week passed far too quickly for John's tastes— he visited his old nanny Sarah Jane, who now had a son of her own, and dined with Robert and Isobel every night save for one, which he dedicated to Reinette's ball, the majority of which was spent dodging her flirtatious advances (partially in French) and repeating his request for her to please stop calling him her 'lonely angel', especially when she was already the mistress of a French duke in Versailles. During the daytime and evenings he pursed the little shops — perhaps a little too enthusiastically, since Jack was snickering in the background while he bounced around the stores — and practically had a conniption when he found the one Charles Dickens book he didn't yet have in his collection. Upon pocketing his new book and strolling out of the bookshop, whistling cheerfully, he started to head towards his carriage when the mingled sounds of angry shouting and pained cries echoed through the street.

"What the sodden hell is that?" John frowned, looking about the square.

"I don't know, m'lord," Jack said confusedly.

"Stay here," John ordered, abandoning Jack by the carriage in search of the noises.

He nearly bowled over two women holding basketfuls of herbs in his efforts, but eventually the sound led him to the alleyway behind the shoemaker's shop. John nearly fell on his face when he skidded to a halt— it was the woman he'd seen on his first night in London. She was facedown on the cobblestone with her mouth open in screams, naked from the waist up as the older man shouted profanity at her and brought a needle-sharp whip down on her bare back. The whip was splitting open her already shredded and bloody skin, breasts pressing against the pavement and already coated in blood and sweat and dirt.

"STOP!" shouted John, hurling himself towards them and grabbing the man's arm before he could do anymore damage.

Whoever this man was, he clearly had a temper, since he jerked his arm away from John's grip so quickly the whip shot upward and nicked the side of John's jaw. As the nobleman winced and brought a hand to his face, the man's face slackened and he hastily bowed his head. "My deepest apologies, m'lord."

"What were you doing to this girl?" John demanded, ignoring his stinging cheek and glaring daggers.

The man straightened haughtily and said, "This bastard child belongs to me."

"'Tis not an excuse to whip the girl into splinters," John scowled.

The man scowled right back, forgetting, in his anger, just whom he was speaking to. "'Tis my right as her Lord and Master, I'll have you know. I shall do what I damn well please with the bitch, and I shall punish her as I see fit."

Plunging his hand into his pocket, John whipped out a sixpence and tossed it in the man's direction. "There. Now she belongs to me. You will henceforth never again lay a hand on her, and you will leave my presence immediately. Is that understood?"

"Yes m'lord," he said, snatching the sixpence off the cobblestone and hurrying into the shoe shop.

The girl was still a huddled mass on the ground, quiet as night. "Are you all right?" John asked, kneeling down next to her and placing a hand on her shoulder. She didn't move, nor did she answer, and he rolled her onto her side, careful not to let the open wounds on her back touch the dirt— she was unconscious. John shouted out for Jack, who arrived in seconds, having apparently followed him.

"Hold her up," he ordered, and Jack knelt by the girl and propped her up as John shrugged off his brown pinstriped coat.

"M'lord, let me, you'll get blood and soil on your coat—" Jack protested.

"The last thing I care about right now, Jack, as this girl is possibly bleeding to death, is soiling a jacket," John snapped, wrapping said jacket around the girl's bare torso. "Help me get her to Torchwood House."

"Yes m'lord," said Jack, holding up her legs while John held up her upper body and manoeuvred her towards the manor. "I know this isn't the right time to say it but… she's a bit lovely," Jack added.

John smirked and shook his head in disbelief but didn't comment. A passing servant maid all but screamed when the two men carried her into the manor, and John ordered, "Get the physician at once." As the maid scampered off, John turned to Jack and said, "Get her into my room."

"Should I fetch a servant maid to bathe her?" Jack asked.

"I'll do it myself; a maid would take too long," John said dismissively. He missed Jack's raised eyebrows until the set her down on the bed, careful not to sully Robert and Isobel's duvet. "What?" he said, frowning.

"Nothing, m'lord," Jack grinned. "She is yours now, after all."

John felt his face heat up and he scowled. "That isn't what I meant, Jack. Go run a bath," he added a bit more harshly than usual.

Jack merely bit back a smirk and obediently headed into the bathing chambers to boil water, just as the servant maid from earlier returned with the physician, Alonso Frame. "Evening, Lord Smith," said Alonso, tipping his hat in John's direction and regarding the dirt and blood-streaked girl on the bed. "What on Earth happened?"

"A master's volatile temper," John scowled bitterly. "I've determined she's not in danger of dying at the moment, but—"

"Do forgive my interruption, but however did you determine that?" Alonso said confusedly.

John smiled wryly. "My mother's matron, Joan Redfern, taught me the basic arts of medicine. Just call me Doctor!" he joked.

Alonso all but beamed at him before regarding the girl. "She'll need to be cleaned at once, lest she develop infection."

"My butler is running her a bath as we speak," John replied. "Have you anything to clean her wounds properly, and bandages?"

Alonso pulled out a bottle of disinfectant and bandages, which John paid for despite the physician's protests. "It's ready, m'lord," Jack added from the bathing room, stepping out with his hands clasped behind his back.

"Fetch me some towels and terrycloth, if you will as well," John said, scooping the girl up bridal style and carrying her into the chamber.

It was steaming from the heat of the water in the porcelain tub, and the collar of John's shirt stuck to the back of his neck. He ignored it and propped her up against (for lack of anything better) his own body and pulled off his jacket, wincing as he noticed part of the blood had dried and caused the cloth to get stuck to her skin. A muscle above her eyebrow twitched when he unpeeled the cloth from her closing wounds but she still didn't wake.

"Here you are, m'lord," Jack said, sneaking a quick peek or three at the girl's now completely bared breasts before handing John three fluffy towels and two soft facecloths.

"Thank you Jack, and shut the door," John muttered, frowning as he avoiding looking at her chest to preserve her modesty and wondered how to go about cleaning her properly.

Jack closed the door behind him as ordered, leaving John alone in the too hot room with a partially naked, unconscious girl. Whom he'd bought. John blushed as Jack's earlier words floated into the forefront of his mind, and then he blushed harder when he not only accidentally got a good look at her breasts, but when he realised that this was the closest he, a thirty-year-old Lord, had ever come to a naked woman. And she wasn't even naked— yet. Perhaps he _should _have had a maid do this.

Forcing himself to be professional and not think of the innuendos Jack was probably brewing up at the moment, John stared hard at a spot behind her ear and stripped off the rest of her raggedy gown, lowering her gently into the tub. She made tiny whimpering noises as the water smarted at the jagged slashes across her back, which grew more and more visible as John used one of the facecloths to wipe away soot and blood. He grimaced; the wounds were half an inch wide and deep, at least. And — he was furious — there were pale silver scars of old, healed whip wounds also present along her back, travelling from the back of her neck and dipping down over the curve of her bottom. How long had that pitiful excuse of a man been hurting her? Probably since birth, if he'd had her that long.

The water in the tub turned dark pink from the blood and dirt, which he washed off her back, face and even out of her hair, trying to avoid using soap near her wounds. When the water cooled to the point where she started to shiver, John lifted her out of the tub and wrapped her hair in one of the towels. He used the second terrycloth, soaked with disinfectant, to sanitize her wounds properly before rolling bandages around her torso, wrapping her in the second towel and carrying her out. Isobel, Robert and Jack sat waiting in the room.

"Poor dear," cooed Isobel, patting the bed indicating that John set her down there, which he did. "Your butler said she was whipped near to death?"

"Yes," John said.

"How dreadfully barbaric," sniffed Robert, as Isobel lifted herself up from the chair and hurried as best she could with her protruding stomach towards the hall. "And you bought her?"

"Yes," he repeated.

"You rescued her, John!" called Isobel happily from the next room. "What shall you do with her now?"

John shrugged, blushing pink at Jack's suggestive eyebrow waggle. "Let her go, I suppose. I haven't any use for the girl, so if she… er, so wishes, she may leave."

Isobel returned with a maid, an elegant lace nightgown and an almost lovesick smile. "You are a true gentleman, John Smith."

"Er, am I?" John said embarrassedly, tugging on his left ear.

"Indeed." Hands on her hips and managing to stand straight and tall while so very with child, Isobel said commandingly, "Now, everyone out! Sally and I shall be dressing the girl and putting her to bed. No men allowed, now shoo."

They all filed out of the room obediently, and Jack excused himself for the night and headed towards the servants' wing.

"I trust you'll be staying this extra night?" Robert asked, looking more than happy about it.

"I'm afraid I can't leave with the girl in such a state. If I'm not imposing…?"

"Not at all, old chap," chuckled Robert. "Once the lady wife's finished with the girl, you may get your things and I'll show you to another room."

John was grateful. As stated, once Isobel and Sally the maid left the room, John went in to fetch his things. He found the girl tucked into bed, damp hair now fanned out against the pillow and eyelashes fluttering. After a fleeting thought that Jack was right, she was rather lovely, he steadfastly refused to look at her, instead grabbing his items — conveniently packed, since he'd expected to have been gone by now — and tiptoeing out of the room. Robert showed him to another, a bit more flowery than his earlier one, but he didn't mind all that much. Upon unpacking a few of his belongings again, mostly his nightwear and other clothing articles, John washed up in the basin by the window and headed downstairs for dinner.

* * *

After everyone had retired for bed, John headed up to his new room to change into his nightclothes. Upon passing by the other bedroom's door, he heard a shuffling noise and the sound of footsteps, and he stopped short, opening the door a crack and peering inside. He spotted the girl he'd bought in the corner of the room, dressed in Isobel's nightgown — which was a bit short for her, only hanging to mid-calf — and apparently unconcerned about her bandaged back. She was running her hands over things like a curious child, including the elegant carved wardrobe, the vanity and a folded-up embroidered blanket, tracing the patterns with dainty fingers. Well, he mused, she'd probably never seen anything as elegant as the carpet, let alone the room.

John stepped into the room and opened his mouth to call out to her, but the floor squeaked underneath his shoe and she whirled around in alarm. "You're awake." She got a good look at him, fright leaving her eyes, and to his shock she sank down onto her knees at once, prostrating herself in front of him. "No, no, no, no, no, no, it's fine, it's—" He gently took her by her shoulders and pulled her up; unsure of what to do with himself now, he took a good four steps backward and tugged at his ear awkwardly. "Er, how are you feeling?"

"'M all right, sir," she said, accent lower class.

John frowned when she realised she was standing with her back ramrod straight. He imagined that if he had wounds even half as bad as the ones she did, he'd be immobilised with pain, or hunched over at the very least. "Are you sure? Your back…"

She smiled at him, dimples in her chin and eyes genuinely kind. Why did it feel like his heart skipped a beat? "Yes, sir. 'M used to it— Master Yana's done it since I was a child." Bile rose in his throat, but he choked it down— she was _used _to it. This poor girl. "How long was I here?"

"Er, three hours, I believe."

Her face blanched. "I've got to leave… Master Yana will be furious, I—"

"It's all right," he said hastily, since she looked ready to bolt. "He's not your master anymore." She cocked her head to the side, frowning with confusion. "I've purchased you," he elaborated. "You are in no more danger."

"Then you're my master?" she said.

"For now," he replied, ignoring her confused look. "What is your name?"

"Rose," she said. "Rose Tyler. Master," she added hastily, ducking her head.

Ooh, he didn't like that. "You needn't call me that," he cringed. "Just 'm'lord' or Mr. Smith will do." Rose nodded obediently, and he suddenly didn't know what to do with himself. "Er, are you hungry? I could have my butler bring you something."

Rose spent a good ten seconds staring at him in astonishment, and he frowned at her. "Why're you so kind to me?" she asked bluntly, before adding on quickly, "M'lord."

His frown deepened and his heart ached with pity for the lass. Had she never known a single word of kindness? Something else occurred to John, and he ignored her question to instead ask, "When was the last time you ate, Rose?"

He knew it was a bad sign when she actually had to think for a full minute. "Er, Monday, I think."

"It's Wednesday," he said in shock.

"Yes it is, m'lord," she said vaguely, shrugging.

John blew out a puff of air and covered his mouth with his hand, frowning contemplatively at the carpet. This was 1879, damn it, not the bloody 1500s— masters should not be treating anyone like so, not even their… concubines or servants or whatever Rose had been. He'd have a bone to pick with that Yana in the morning, but for now he ordered, "Stay here. I'll send up Jack to bring you something to eat. I expect you to eat all of it, do you understand?"

"Yes Mast— m'lord," she corrected quickly.

"Afterwards you are to continue resting," he instructed. "I leave London for Glasgow in the morning and I wish to see that you are at least a little better before I depart."

A look of something unidentifiable flickered over her face. "I don't understand. I'm not gonna come with you?"

"You may leave if you wish," John told her.

"But you bought me, m'lord."

"For naught but a sixpence," John waved it off. "You have no obligation to stay."

She was staring at her bare feet when John turned around and headed towards the opened door. He halted when she called after him, "Can I come with you? M'lord," she added yet again.

Confusing him was becoming a frequent occurrence for her— why would she wish to stay? He decided it was most likely because she hadn't anywhere else to go and said, "You may, if you wish."

Just before he started to leave again, he caught a brief glimpse of another smile, this one more brilliant and happier. Why staying with him would make her so content, he didn't know; but he resolved to himself that if she was going to stay with him, he'd teach her that there was a world of kindness beyond the whip of her former master Yana.

* * *

In the morning, Isobel and Robert graciously provided John with a small amount of food to last them until the train station, adding a bit extra 'in case the lass got hungry', as Robert had put it. It was apparent that the couple had taken a shine to the girl— after convincing her to simply call him 'Sir Robert', Rose managed to make Robert positively beam at her, although neither would say what she'd said to make him do so. Isobel, just after waking, had not only changed Rose's bandages and brushed out her now dried, wavy golden locks, she'd provided her with a pearl pin to hold up her hair, and two different travelling gowns. Rose had stared at her with the same look of utter astonishment she'd sent John the night before — honestly, had the girl ever been treated with kindness even _once_?! — and had protested at first, since the gowns were probably ten and twenty pounds apiece, never mind the pin, but Isobel had insisted since Rose was a 'poor dear' and that she ought to keep it.

John, waiting for her in the hallway, had been stunned when Rose emerged clean, lovely and dressed in her new auburn gown that made her eyes stand out… not that he thought such things. Despite her almost regal appearance she kept her posture into that of an obvious submissive, and had even insisted on helping Jack (who seemed to have _two _lazy eyes, since they kept gravitating in the direction of her backside) load his things into the carriage, until John had had to order her not to.

Left with nothing to do, as John said warm goodbyes and 'until next year's to his friends, Rose had wandered over to the horses, petting the right one on the nose and smiling when it nudged its face deeper into her hand. "Aye, miss," said the coachman, tipping his blonde head in her direction. "The horses seem to have taken a shinin' to yeh."

"I like horses," she told him, smiling at him warmly. "What's your name?"

"Jake Simmonds," he said, beaming. "And yours, m'lady?"

"Oh, I'm not a lady," she said confusedly, wondering if she really looked that different. "And it's Rose."

"Miss Rose, then," Jake said graciously.

"Come along, Rose," John called from the side of the carriage.

Rose bid Jake one last smile before hopping towards the opened carriage door immediately. John once again disliked the way she looked astonished when Jack graciously outstretched his hand to help her into the carriage.

On the way back to the train station, John watched as Rose practically glued herself to the window, staring in awe at the passing scenery. He smiled in amusement, reckoning that she'd never been outside of London. Or perhaps Yana's home. She stayed mostly silent in the carriage, too immersed in staring out the window, but eventually Jack coaxed her into conversation and had her erupting in giggles in minutes with his usual brand of suggestive jokes. Her laughter was lovely, as was her innate curiosity in awe when John gave her an expensive Danish to eat.

"What were you to that Yana guy, Rosie?" Jack asked.

Rose beamed at her new nickname. "At first it was just being his servant, but when I turned fourteen he took me as his concubine."

"How did you come upon him?" John frowned.

"I'm not sure. Master Yana said my mother was a peasant woman who died giving birth to me," Rose said.

"Your father?"

"Died in the war, m'lord."

John's father had died in the war as well, his mother following him into death because of sickness, and he had an odd urge to share that with her, but he ignored it. They stayed in relative silence for the rest of the trip, the four of them boarding the train in Hounslow and watching in amused silence as Rose once again bounced around the train cart like a child seeing the world for the first time. She fell asleep on the train — to his embarrassment and Jack's amusement, on John's shoulder — and on John's order stepped into the loo to use some more of the purchased disinfectant on her wounds. It still bothered John how little Rose seemed to notice her wounds— he'd only seen her wince once, after she'd woken and had attempted to stretch.

The train stopped at the station in Aberdeen, and Jack loaded their luggage onto another carriage waiting for them there while Rose stared voraciously at everything her eyes could take in. John couldn't bite back the smile when his towering, arresting residence loomed into view from inside the carriage, on Dire-Illing Street.

"You'll be staying in the servants' quarters," John told her, upon leading her into the estate. "For as long as you wish to remain here, you are expected to perform the same duties as any other maid here."

"Will I be your concubine as well, m'lord?" Rose asked.

He blushed crimson and was glad Jack was busy bringing his things up to his room, or else he'd probably be smirking right now. "No." When she nodded, he pushed away his embarrassment and continued, "Are there any particular tasks you would prefer?"

Rose shook her head. "No m'lord."

"What did that Yana make you do— besides being a concubine?" John added quickly.

"Everything, sir. I cooked, cleaned, did laundry, served his meals, did the shopping…"

"Very well, then you will aid the maids in the kitchens, laundry rooms and will serve me tea and meals," John decided. "You may help yourself to the servants' attire— Jack will show you where they're kept. And…" he looked at her, "… whenever and if ever you wish to leave, you may without question or complaint."

She nodded, but the look in her eyes suggested she had no intention of doing that. Jack showed up shortly and escorted her down to the servants' quarters in the west wing, showing her to a plainly furnished room. Rose was shocked to discover she had her own bathtub— Master Yana had never provided one, so she'd been forced to bathe in the river. Upon waking up the previous night clean, bandaged and smelling like expensive soap and disinfectant, dressed in somebody else's nightgown, Rose had wondered if she was dreaming, since she'd never been in such a lavish place. She'd run her hands over everything in the room, from the nightgown to the duvet to even the carvings on the walls and the canvases of paintings, determined to catalogue every appearance and texture of everything before she was forced back into her life of splintery, moulded floors and trying desperately to use the basest of foods and turn them into something Master Yana wouldn't get angry over.

Only, that part hadn't happened, she mused. This man — who she'd happened to peer at around the corner just to watch how highborn folk interacted with each other — a nobleman who had no reason whatsoever to care about anything but his riches or whatever it was nobles cared about, had burdened himself with her to save her life from Yana. Rose feared that, had Master John not interfered, Yana would have finally killed her— she'd lost him a whole pound in sales by mixing the shoeshine wrong, and ruining a pair of shoes meant for a customer. Rose hung her head at her blunder, still feeling ashamed of herself— she was an _idiot_. Hopefully her duties to Master Smith wouldn't go so awry.

* * *

John woke in the morning, drifting from lovely, dreamless slumber. He was snuggled into his pillow and deliciously warm under the blankets, and he had just resolved not to get up but to waft back into sleep, until a gentle knocking sound on the door made him scowl. Sitting up, and rubbing his eyes, he called wearily, "One moment!" before tossing off the covers, shuffling towards the rack in the corner and donning his dressing gown.

Rose poked her head in at his call, and he smiled at her, glad to see her in a lovely maid's uniform instead of the bundle of rags. She was holding a cup of tea on a saucer and an almost terrified expression, making his smile disappear— did she expect him to attack her?

"Come in," he told her, all but beaming at her to try and calm her down. "Good morning, Rose."

"Good mornin', Master— er, m'lord," she said, tentatively stepping into the room.

"Just put it on the desk," John told her, and she obediently crossed the room and set the steaming cup next to the desk lamp. He added, because she still looked nervous, "This is your first day in a new city, and home, so I'll allow you not to perform any duties today."

Rose's mouth fell open into a confused 'o'. "M'lord?"

"I'd like you to adjust properly," John elaborated, tying the knot on his dressing gown and turning his attention to his tea. "To learn the ropes, so to speak, and explore the estate so you won't get lost in the future."

"Can I—?" She swallowed, and he glanced up just before he was about to sip it only to be stunned when her eyes were wide and full of hope. "Can I explore the city?"

He contemplated the idea— the thought of her getting lost in the city, since Glasgow was pretty big, was unappealing, but the look on her face was one that would probably be burned into his mind forever. "Very well. Make absolutely certain not to get lost, and be careful of thieves."

She beamed, actually beamed — cheeks dimpled, mouth wide, eyes alight like a bonfire — and he nearly dropped his cup. "Thank you, _thank you, m'lord_!"

Rose positively bolted out of the room, and John stared at the spot where she'd disappeared for a good solid ten minutes before remembering that he had to breathe. Shaking his head and chuckling, he took a sip of his tea and smacked his tongue in delight— whoever had made it a little sweeter and creamier than Astrid's usual bitter blend. He wondered for a brief moment if Rose had made it before heading off to get dressed.

* * *

Rose was absent for the entirety of the day, to the point where John started to worry, wondering if she'd been attacked by a cutpurse. It was nearing dinnertime when John passed by the main entrance, only to see a flushed, dishevelled and delighted-looking Rose, with a basket covered by chequered linen on one arm and a book tucked under the other.

"Where have you been?" snapped John, storming up to her and preparing for a good scolding.

She was apparently so thrilled that she didn't even notice his fury. "All over, m'lord! Glasgow's brilliant! Met a group of people downtown — the only names I can remember are Ursula, Elton and Mr. Skinner — and an older woman, um, Harriet Jones." She paused her excited rant to hold up the basket and pull back the linen cloth, to reveal still warm buns. "She gave me these to take home to you! They've got cheese in 'em, I think she said." His anger ebbed away when Rose beamed at him almost expectantly, and he shook his head in disbelief, unable to hold back the smile. She brought him back buns? "Oh, and this book," Rose added, holding it out to him.

"_Les __Misérables_," he read aloud, smiling at it. He had a first edition copy of it already in the library, but she looked so pleased, so he didn't tell her. Instead he said, "Why don't you keep it? You could read it." Her smile vanished at once and her head hung a little; he internally scolded himself for whatever he'd done to destroy her mood. "What's the matter?"

"I dunno how to read," she mumbled, shamefaced and eyes locked on her feet.

Later, in the future, he decided that it was that particular moment that he stopped thinking of her as merely another servant, but as someone to care for. In that moment, he'd smiled at her, hands cupping the sides of her face and lifting her head up. "I'm sure Jack will be able to teach you, in between your duties."

John had blushed a little when he realised his unconscious gesture, but she seemed unperturbed, eyes once again blown wide with awe and hope. "Yeah?"

"Yes," he said, taking his hands away hastily.

Rose beamed at him again, mood restored instantaneously. "Thank you, m'lord!"

She hugged the copy of _Les __Misérables_to her bosom and handed him the basket of buns before scampering off, once again leaving him dumbstruck and, this time, holding the steaming basket. John was used to women, noble and servant alike, being reserved and near dispassionate about the world— Rose's refreshing curiosity and excitement at discovering new things almost rivalled his own. Chuckling to himself, he reached into the basket and bit into one of the buns, strolling off and making a mental note to thank the dowager Harriet Jones in the morning.

* * *

To John's delight, Rose's wounds healed completely, and she adjusted to her new role in the household quickly and easily. She befriended the servants in an instant, the social spitfire that she was, and Jack already probably had a secret crush on her— although, of course, it was almost certainly for her backside. He noted that she bonded particularly with Astrid — ever too eager to please him — Jenny, the air-headed Evangelista, Ianto and, to his immense surprise, the gardener and his wife, Martha and Mickey. Yana hadn't seemed like the type to teach her about racial tolerance— then again Rose, despite having been raised under his temper and outright terrible manners, was miraculously the kindest and sweetest woman he'd ever met. He made absolutely certain she had three meals a day — he managed to convince himself that it was because she needed more nourishment than the other servants — and despite his orders for her to finish it all, he caught her several times sneaking some of her meals to the other maids, Martha and Mickey or, once, a stray cat that had wandered into the cellar. He looked the other way each time, shocked at her kindness.

John's original theory about Rose having made the tea herself was correct, and after a week of alternating between Rose's absolutely _perfect _brew and Astrid's original, John ended up going to the kitchens and asking that Rose be the one from now on to make his tea. How she managed to get it just right with every go was beyond him, but he was delighted and looked forward to it every morning.

Jack spent evenings, when Rose had a break from her duties, teaching her reading and writing. John caught a glimpse of them in the library one night, and he was shocked when she managed to spell out the word 'preposterous' on her first go. He also noted that, when Jack ended up trying to get her to write out profanity at one point, she'd collapsed into giggles and wrote 'don't be stupid' instead. Sufficed to say, he'd also laughed at that point.

Between her delivering his tea and meals, they'd occasionally run into each other in the hallways and stop to talk. She was unbelievably fascinating to chat with, and he found himself not only enjoying each and every conversation, but actually in several instances with the idea to seek her out, just for her company. She spoke not of what this person had done or which event this person was hosting, as every other noblewoman did, but of ridiculous things, brilliant ideas and kind words about everybody.

It'd struck him as shocking when she'd witnessed Martha and Mickey being insulted by one of the servants — Lazarus, as he called himself — and she'd asked him, "Why did Lazarus call them 'dirty', m'lord?"

"Because they're not of the same colour as us, Rose," he explained to her.

"So?" she said at once, blinking up at him.

Adoring warmth washed over him immediately and he smiled down at her with something decidedly soppy. In this day and age, there were more and more people promoting racial equality, and John had always considered himself to be one of them— but she was something else… she truly believed it. He resolved to raise Mickey and Martha's salaries in that instance and said, "There are many people who believe men of colour are inhuman."

"But you don't?" Rose said, looking earnest and a tad wary.

"No, Rose."

She had beamed at him again, a smile that he was becoming immensely fond of, and his own smile had widened instinctively.

And, he was astonished and thrilled to discover, she also had dreams of travelling, perhaps about as many as he did. In yet another conversation, in which John found himself spilling more and more of his heart and mind to her, he told her of a game he used to play in his childhood, with his cousin Donna Noble, his friend James McCrimmon and, on occasion, Sarah Jane.

"We'd run around the backyard of my parents' estate, and pretend we were in the most beautiful of places," John told her, a nostalgic smile on his face and a beam on hers. "Sometimes it was Northern Canada, or in a desert in India, or even a jungle in Madagascar. We'd pretend robins and jays were exotic birds and that the oak near the forest was a palm tree, and that the lunches the maids made us were actually foreign cuisine."

Rose giggled. "Whenever Master Yana would send me out shoppin', I'd pretend I was in a market across the sea lookin' for exotic souvenirs to take home."

"You did?" He was delighted.

"Yep!" She grinned at him, tongue at the corner of her mouth. "I've always wanted to travel."

"Maybe one day we will," he said quietly, leaving unsaid but hinting at the word 'together'.

That was probably when he'd fallen in love with her, truly.

Now it was four months later, four months of waking up to Rose's bright smile and perfectly brewed tea, of more than polite conversation between master and servant. And, lately, he'd been having these extraordinary dreams.

John Smith was known amongst close friends and family as someone with a runaway gob and dreams to peek inside each and every crack in the world, just to see what was in there, but nobody knew he could have an imagination bigger than these united nations themselves— not even him, until he took on Rose Tyler and saw the world through her eyes for a brief moment. His dreams changed from regular human nonsense to extraordinary stories, consisting mainly of himself and Rose. Dozens of times they were in the past or even the _future_, of all places— sometimes on different planets! There was one of he and Rose being attacked at a gala by metal men who wished to turn them into metal as well, and one of them at Reinette's estate in Versailles, where said French mistress had (for some reason) made Rose upset by flirting with him as they ran from clockwork people in wigs. And there was one where they'd been in some sort of hospital, run by humanoid cats in wimples. He'd blushed crimson when he'd woken, for in the dream Rose had been possessed by a corporeal flap of skin wearing lipstick and had snogged him furiously against a wall.

John liked to tell her about his dreams whenever they spoke — which nowadays was often — carefully avoiding that it was about the two of them. When he told them to her, he turned them into fiction and called them 'the Doctor and the Companion', and she even requested more, apparently fascinated by his vivid imagination. Most women in his life that he knew would titter and call him 'absent-minded' or at the very least 'silly', but not Rose. He'd actually interrupted her halfway through doing the washing to tell her about a new dream, where the Doctor and the Companion had to save the world from being trapped in a child's drawing.

"On that note, how are your reading skills coming along?" John asked, smiling brilliantly at her.

She beamed back, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I can write a bit now, but I'm far from bein' able to read _Les __Misérables__._"

"It truly is a brilliant book," John said almost forlornly, wishing he could share it with her. An idea hit him over the head. "I could read it to you, if you'd like."

"Yeah?"

She looked about as excited as he felt, and he nodded. "Be in the library after your duties have been performed— I shall meet you there."

"Thank you, m'lord!" she said delightedly, clutching her hands to her chest.

After he'd left, giddy and excited for the night, Rose had returned to the washing basin, beaming away like an idiot.

* * *

John waited for her in the library, fidgeting in his seat on the chesterfield and occasionally sipping his tea— Rose's brew, as usual. He was early; a mistake on his part, since every second waiting for her felt like forever. Why was he so nervous? It was silly, really— he was just going to read to her. It would be like telling her one of his dreams, although this time he wouldn't have to leave out any details, like her snogging him. Or doing something far more inappropriate.

She arrived almost silently, making him nearly jump out of his trousers when she said quietly, "M'lord?" from behind him.

"Hello Rose," he said, a bit more fondly than he wanted to. Clearing his throat, he accepted her copy of _Les Misérables _and motioned for her to sit next to him on the couch, which she did eagerly, making herself comfortable. "In 1815, M. Charles Francois-Bienvenu Myriel was Bishop…"

The beginning, laced with religious phrases and almost sesquipedalian words, made it hard for her to follow at first, but when he reached the part about the Jean Valjean's theft and redemption, she grew quiet and fascinated. He was halfway through the eighth chapter when he felt a pressure on his shoulder— her head. Swallowing the inelegant spluttering noises he wanted to make, John made no comment about it but pressed on, until she fell asleep and he had to carry her down to her room. Before he left, he marked their place with a note, which read '_again tomorrow_?'

The next morning, on his saucer, he found a shockingly elegant note that read '_yes, please'_. He'd smiled and pocketed it.

Her head on his shoulder turned into his arm around hers, which then turned into her pressed into his side and her head in the crook of his neck. The chesterfield turned into the velvet chaise, although it was meant for one person— she now practically sat in his lap. They finished _Les Misérables _and moved on to Dickens, as per her request (although he may have 'encouraged' her by going on excited rants) and got through three of his books in a mere month.

He didn't know when it had become standard protocol to curl up together in the chaise, snuggling like old paramours, and as scandalous as general society would find it — since not only was she a servant that he'd purchased for a coin, they were not courting nor wed — John was stonily unwilling to give up his nightly armful of sweet-smelling, amazingly kind, soft woman. And while he as a personal opinion thought that what happened behind closed doors should stay there, and normally didn't dwell on anything particular that could be considered scandalous by the general population, the fact remained that having Rose in his arms not only pleased him a lot more than it should, but he was constantly fighting odd urges, like that to kiss the top of her head or that tantalising bit of skin underneath her ear, or to put the bloody book down, grab her waist and guide her against his (always, when he was holding her) hard sex.

At one — very low — point in the night, when he was nearly mad with want, he'd thought about retracting his statement that she wouldn't be his concubine. That thought was squashed quickly in shame and displeasure— he didn't just want her, he wanted _her. All_ of her. Not just her body, for then he'd be no better than Yana, but he also (as a man who'd only just accepted he'd fallen in love with his servant) wanted her heart. Although this was messing up his mind, for he was starting to imagine Rose sending him secret glances when she thought he wasn't looking, or her touches lingering until it was just shy of inappropriate.

John had kept this to himself… up until the loud-mouthed, ginger cousin of his, Donna, arrived, sporting the equally loud Lady River Song of Bristol by her side. Donna had greeted him by calling him 'dumbo' for spluttering at them at the door for their unannounced visit, and River had strolled in like she owned the place, touching him in places best left alone and remarking, "Get your servants to bring us some tea, won't you sweetie?"

"Why are you here?!" John managed to choke out, following River and Donna as they strode towards the sitting room.

"Can't I visit my stupid cousin?" Donna glowered, plopping down on the chesterfield.

"You could have at least sent me a letter," John grumbled.

"The postman must have lost it," River said airily, before adding impatiently, "Tea?"

"One moment," John sighed, practically slinking into the hall. All he'd wanted to do today was distract Rose from her duties and tell her about his newest dream — the Doctor and Rose saving Queen Victoria from a werewolf in Torchwood House — and the last thing he wanted, however much he loved his cousin, was to sit through her chatters about what thing was 'wizard' and listen to River insult people, flirt with him and try to grab his bum. "Rose!" he choked out, spotting her at the end of the hall and practically tripping over himself in his haste to get there.

"M'lord?" she said, raising an eyebrow and grinning with her tongue between her teeth at his desperate look.

"My cousin and a… friend of mine… have arrived," John explained. "If you'd fetch them some tea and crumpets…?"

"Yes, m'lord," she said.

He followed her to the kitchen, unwilling to head back to the sitting room unless he absolutely had to. As Rose was brewing the tea he found himself immersed in conversation with her yet again, unbidden and unexpected, and when they entered the sitting room together, he had a silly grin on his face that his two guests narrowed their eyes at.

"What's your name, sweetie?" River cooed in Rose's direction, her voice syrupy in comparison to the sharp look in her eye.

"Rose, m'lady," she said, bobbing a curtsey.

"Rose, then," River said, taking a bite of a crumpet before saying, in her signature blunt way, "So, Rose, how long has Johnny there been smitten with you?"

Donna smirked, John went crimson and Rose frowned confusedly. "What does 'smitten' mean?"

"Never mind," said John hastily, steering her out of the room before anyone could do anymore damage. "I shall see you tonight, yes?"

She nodded, smiling, before leaving. John turned back to the women, who looked unimaginably pleased with themselves, and hissed, "I am not _smitten_."

"No, you're just madly in love with her," Donna pointed out. "You should have seen your bloody face when you walked in with her."

"Honestly, Johnny, a _servant_?" River scoffed, popping the rest of her crumpet into her mouth.

"How did you get her, anyway?" Donna wondered, before John could snap at River. "I've never seen her before."

"I bought her for a sixpence in London," John explained, shooting a glare at River when she smirked. "Her master nearly whipped her to death."

Donna winced and even River looked sympathetic. "Poor girl."

"So, what are you doing with her tonight, eh?" River added with a wink.

He scowled, face bright as the sun. "Not what you're thinking, thank you!"

"You did stare at her backside just before she came in here," Donna pointed out, before taking pity on him when his face nearly caught fire and his lower lip stuck out in an irritated pout. "She may be a servant, but it's clear as day that you love her, you dumbo." He mumbled incoherently, staring at his plimsolls. "Maybe you should tell her that."

"Or shag her against the wall like you obviously want to," River suggested, though she didn't look happy about it.

"Thank you for your input," said John sourly.

Donna shrugged. "Wouldn't hurt. Anyway, you wouldn't believe the most _wizard _thing that happened last week…"

* * *

It took a week for him to work up the courage to do anything.

They were once again snuggling in the chaise— he continued to read despite the fact that Rose's breathing had gone laboured and her head was turned into his neck, breaths hitting his neck and making him shiver. He bit his lip when she shifted, bum rubbing against his clothed, already hard organ, but forced himself to keep reading.

"… If she did so love me (I said) that she could take me for her husband, she could do so, on no deserving of mine, except upon the truth of my love for her, and the trouble which it had ripened to be what it was; and hence it was that I revealed it…"

His voice trailed off and he lowered the book, craning his head to look down at her. Thick eyelashes fluttering, lips pink and parted and cheeks flushed— how had he not noticed her loveliness beforehand? John spotted, through the slightly opened collar of her bodice, the lines of her old and new scars from Yana's whip. Regretfully, he lifted a hand up and trailed his fingers over what he could see of her scars, a pleasantly warm feeling bubbling in his stomach when he watched gooseflesh follow the path of his fingertips.

Rose mumbled something and stirred, heading turning and lifting so that she trailed the tip of her nose over his throat. She opened her eyes and blinked up at him, apparently unaware at that point that their faces were mere centimetres apart.

And he decided.

"Kiss me," he whispered. Colour flooded her cheeks and she lifted herself up at once, but he stopped her. "Kiss me because you want to."

The smallest of smiles graced her mouth, and she raised herself again and gently pressed her mouth against his. He let out a shuddering breath and raised his hand up to her face, sliding his hand over her jaw and angling her head better. It was sweet and gentle— until it wasn't. Suddenly his tongue was plunging between her lips, running over every inch of her mouth he could reach, and his hands gripped her waist, pushed her upright so she was straddling his hips and pressed her against him like he'd always dream of doing; she had her hands tangled in his already flyaway hair, mussing it up even more, and she met his tongue with her own, curling it over his and rolling her hips against his expertly.

He grunted and tugged the sleeves of her dress down her shoulders, bearing the breasts he'd only ever seen when bloodied and dirt-streaked to the fire lit room and to his eager hands. Now they were full and lush, fair mounds of silken flesh with pale pink nipples standing to attention. She keened into his mouth when he flicked his thumbs over them, and her own hands left his hair to fumble with the zip of his trousers, accidentally brushing against him twice and making his grip on her breasts tighten as a result. Her hand slipped into his now opened trousers and wrapped around his cock, pulling him out into the open, and John's head slammed back when she started to pump in earnest, giving her opportunity to duck her head down and rasp her tongue up the side of his neck.

"Rose," he groaned, when she brushed her thumb over his leaking tip.

John dipped his head down and sucked a nipple into his mouth, hands shoving her gown and underskirts up around her waist, pushing aside her drawers. Her whole body twitched when his fingers slipped through her folds, the shock making her hand still and squeeze him and causing him to buck upwards, pushing the head of his cock against her clit.

"M'lord—" she started to cry, but he shook his head furiously.

"_John_," he snapped against her breast, jamming two fingers into her soaked entrance and making her jerk at the violation. "Call me John. Nothing else."

"I can't," she whined, breasts heaving as he pumped his digits into her.

Were he not drunk on lust and love and desperation, he would understand— the girl had been born and raised to honour her 'master' and had probably never called anyone without an honorific. Now, though, it displeased him horribly, and to retaliate he stilled his fingers, ignoring her noise of protest, raised himself up and kissed her so fiercely it even hurt him for a second. He bit her lip roughly and then ran his tongue over the wound, and the gentlemanly side of him was horrified at the feral aspect of his actions, but his cock was throbbing between her motionless fingers and all he wanted was to bury himself inside her and fuck her to the song of his name on her lips.

"_Please_," he growled against her mouth, resuming the motions of his fingers and adding a third.

Rose thrust her hips down on his hand, whimpering when he emulated the motion and hit her clit with the head of his organ again. Opening her eyes to look at him, looking nervous as hell, she whispered, "J-John."

He yanked his fingers out of her with a desperate keen, replacing them with his length in a single thrust, burying himself inside her. They both shuddered at once, Rose moaning loud enough to echo through the library, and he kicked his head back in ecstasy— oh, but he'd wanted this for months. Gripping her hips tightly, he guided her, rocking her on him and making pleasure shoot up his spine in little bursts.

"Say it again," he pleaded.

"John," she breathed, hands travelling up to tangle in his hair to tilt his head up to her mouth.

Using his hands as a guide, she raised and lowered herself on him in a gentle rhythm, the sounds of their breaths and soft moans barely audible over the crackling coming from the fireplace. She alternated between giving him slow kisses and whispering his name in his ear, the song he'd dreamt of hearing. He groaned out her name in between each thrust, which got steadily quicker until she was all but riding him, his left hand now rubbing her clit in steady strokes and his right gripping her arse, shoving her harder down on him.

When his own fingers grazed the head of his cock just before he thrust back into her, he jerked his hips upward from the pleasure, hitting something inside of her and making her come apart in his arms, clenching around him and crying out with bliss as her orgasm rippled through her. The sight was almost enough for him to reach his own high, but not quite— he still needed more. She let the last of her climax shudder through her, taking a couple of breaths before starting to ride him again, clenching around him with each thrust until he too was groaning out his release, shunting his hips up uncontrollably and spilling himself inside her.

John slumped into putty underneath her, wincing when his softened cock glided out of her as she positioned herself back into their snuggling position, head burying in the crook of his neck again.

"Leave with me," he panted, after a moment of silent bliss.

"Where?" she murmured into his neck.

"Anywhere. Everywhere." He turned to her, coaxing her to look up at him as well so she could see his smile. "We'll travel together, all over the world. And the first place we'll go is Barcelona."

"Barcelona?" she repeated, smiling.

"It's a city. We could go there together, and…" he paused, before hesitating and avoiding her eyes, "We could get married there."

She pulled back and gaped at him. "What?"

John stared at her, face earnest. "Marry me, Rose."

Her reaction was the opposite of what he hoped— she ducked her head, looking despondent. "I'm just a—"

"You're not just a servant," he interrupted, hand sliding over the side of her face. "Not anymore. I…" he swallowed, "I love you, Rose."

Rose's breath caught in her throat; she instantly dissolved into tears and he hoped they were happy ones. This was confirmed when she crashed her mouth on his, kissing him chastely and furiously before pulling back. "I love you too."

"Marry me," he repeated breathlessly.

"Yes. _Yes_."

* * *

_And now I tried to tell her of the struggle I had had, and the conclusion I had come to. I tried to lay my mind before her, truly and entirely. I tried to show her how I had hoped I had come into the better knowledge of myself, and of her; how I had resigned myself to what that better knowledge brought; and how I had come there, even that day, in my fidelity to this. If she did so love me (I said) that she could take me for her husband, she could do so, on no deserving of mine, except upon the truth of my love for her, and the trouble which it had ripened to be what it was; and hence it was that I revealed it. And oh, Agnes, even out of thy true eyes, in that same time, the spirit of my child-wife looked upon me, saying it was well; and winning me, through thee, to tenderest recollections of the Blossom that had withered in its bloom._

* * *

There were people who looked and dressed like the ones in London and Glasgow, but spoke in peculiar accents; they sold food identical to theirs but didn't know what chips were; and the greetings and endearments were foreign, no 'good day's and 'old chap's, but 'hi there's and 'buddy's. Despite the exotic brilliance of Barcelona, John's eyes were locked on his Rose, the both of them still dressed in their wedding clothes— she was magnificence in white lace and yellow roses woven into her hair. She was enraptured by the surroundings, only tearing her eyes away from a woman spinning straw through a spinning wheel when he approached her, raining kisses over the side of her face.

"Jack's waiting to take us to our guest estate, love," John told her fondly. "Then we can explore."

"Yeah, no, just…" she said absently, trailing off as her eyes spotted something in the crowd, before abruptly taking off after a vendor selling some kind of odd-shaped bread. Simultaneously chuckling and cursing her innate curiosity, he ran after her, grinning when he realised he'd now be chasing this child-wife of his over hill and over dale.

And he was fine with that.

* * *

**A/N: Tenth installment in the Forever and More series; just a short, corny historical romance :) This was originally supposed to be a high school AU, but the story ended up just being a giant pile of pointless drama, so I stopped writing it 'cos I was boring myself. I may continue that one in the future, but it's doubtful; I spent all my high school years trying to get away from that crap, and I don't want it leaking into my writing :) The paragraph of dialogue near the end is from David Copperfield, © Charles Dickens, and the little bit of dialogue from Les Miserables is © Victor Hugo. I have first edition copies of both from my grandmother, and I love them :3 Heads up: Eleven's story (which I am sooo goddamn proud of... that's all I'm sayin') will be a two-parter, M rated as well, and Twelve's will be M too, although I'm not sure how long it'll be yet... creativity knows no bounds!  
**

**PS: I'm sure no one noticed this, since I was pretty vague about it, but I took creative liberty with the name of John's estate :) His 'towering, arresting residence on Dire-Illing Street'. Yeah I went there ^^**


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